


To Be a Shurijin

by excogs



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Azim Steppe (Final Fantasy XIV), Brass Blades (Final Fantasy XIV), Family, Gen, Ul'dah (Final Fantasy XIV), absolutely self-indulgent nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excogs/pseuds/excogs
Summary: When an already-trying day for Shimo Shurijin takes a Brass Blades and dead family members-themed turn for the worse, Shimo is forced to consider what being the last surviving member of her family truly means.
Kudos: 3





	To Be a Shurijin

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: Shimo and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day  
> alternate alternate title: Mosun Does a Crimes
> 
> this is the story of how Shimo, my main non-WoL/protagonist FFXIV oc, meets her half-sister Mosun, infamous Azim Steppe gremlin, for the first time! inspired by a twitter joke about the first thing Mosun does in Eorzea is punch a Brass Blade.
> 
> i have no idea how much one gil is actually worth, and it doesn't seem like anyone else does, so don't take the numbers mentioned too seriously. hopefully this will tide you over until the Ekhoshtola fic is done!

It had been a trying day for Shimo Shurijin. She had three commissions demanding each to be finished first, she’d accidentally struck her finger with a lapidary hammer, and, by the Kami, if they spun up whatever that _ungodly_ loud aethertech spinner prototype was again, she swears she’d be ready to break it with her tears to get some quiet while she works.

So when the sound of the weavers’ guild’s door slamming open was followed by the familiar rattle of sandy chainmail and scimitars, Shimo was equal parts frozen in agony and completely unsurprised with how the Kami seemed wont to test her today. Was it because she’d put off restoring that urn? She wanted to, truly, being as the only one who could, but her family trade made her little and less gil with which to make a living off of, so commissions had to come first. Regardless, Shimo thinks, the Brass Blades pay visit to her guild often enough, whether looking for a cheap armor fix or to drag some poor sap out into the streets, so it was only natural that the next words that echoed through the guild’s cramped halls caught her completely off guard:

“Aren’t there a She-mo Shuh-rih-jean what works here?”

Wheels stopped spinning and needles fell still when the doors opened, so Shimo could distinctly and clearly hear the shifting of fabric and jewelery that followed as near every set of eyes in the room fell on her. Shimo sets her needle down and turns with a shuddered exhale, putting on a strong face with the dwindling energy she has left and hoping beyond hope she isn’t today’s poor sap.

“That would be me,” Shimo says, slowly, hesitantly. “If you’re looking for repairs, I’m afraid that I’m very busy, and-”

The masked mercenary cuts her off. “Your sister’s in the gaol.”

His words drop through Shimo’s stomach like a ten-tonze weight. Yugiri Mistwalker and the first Doman Uprising refugees landed on Eorzean soil years ago, but, despite the shinobi’s reassurances, no others ever followed. Shimo had long accepted that she was the last Shurijin. Yet here stood some two-gil walking scimitar claiming otherwise. Was it true? Did Niwa yet live?

Shimo dared not hope.

“... Excuse me?”

“Don’t press me fer details. The rat asked fer you by name, and damned if I could tell what else she was spoutin’. She’s got the same blue skin n’ horns as you, and, like as not, there ain’t many lizardfolk as you around,” the Blade says.

“I’m not a Liz-” Shimo cuts herself off. It wasn’t worth getting into with the man with the sword. “... No matter. Please take me to her. Redolent, if needed, pass my clients my deepest apologies, and let them know I am out for a family emergency.”

_Family emergency._ The words left a sickening taste in Shimo’s mouth. How could it be a family emergency if she had no family left to worry for?

Shimo turns to see the gallant Roegadyn overseeing the guild nod and takes warm note of the concern knitting his brow. Redolent Rose always took care of her. He had since the day she’d been brought to the guild in a refugee work program, and Shimo knew, come what may, he would today. Shimo sets down the hitch of cloth she hadn’t noticed she’d been white-knuckle gripping, sighs, and follows the Brass Blade out.

Her heart was practically pounding through her horns at this point. With each step, accompanied by the clank of worn chainmail, the bustle of midday Ul’dah, and the overbearing, apathetic silence from the armored man in front of her, more questions flooded her mind. Could Niwa be alive? How had she escaped? Did that mean that the rest had survived too? Where had they been? How did they get here?

The Brass Blade leads Shimo to a part of Ul’dah she’d thankfully never been to before: The gaols. Shimo hesitantly steps through hallways lit only by torches and the reflections they scatter off of the Brass Blades standing guard at every turn, her stomach churning all the while. It was too dark, too scary, she had no idea what was going on, and she was one tiny au’ra surrounded by countless armed and armoured men with a reputation more dismal than even the Syndicate that controls them.

The Brass Blade rounds a tight corner into the better-lit holding block, making the look of confusion on Shimo’s face all the more clear to everyone in view when her eyes fall on an au’ra who is most certainly not her sister. The Blade leading her, however, stops, and smacks one of the bars. Shimo’s heart sinks. This isn’t Niwa. Which means that Niwa is...

The Brass Blade’s booming voice cuts off Shimo’s spiraling thoughts. “‘Ere she is, rat. Get ‘er to pay your way and get out.”

The girl in the cell is in fact a _xaela_ au’ra - clearly, the Brass Blades couldn’t tell the difference - but, while it’s tough to make out thanks to the head-to-toe layer of dust and soot in the way, her skin reflects a distinctly Shurijin icy blue in the dim candlelight. The girl lays her familiarly bold red eyes on Shimo, and her pursed lips widen to an open-mouthed smile thick enough with relief to rival a master sculptor’s best works.

_“Purbol’s viney butt!”_ The girl exclaims, and in Doman, no less. Shimo had spoken her native language all of about twice since leaving Othard, but despite a bit of rust and the girl’s _thick_ Azim Steppe accent, she understood her rather unique expletive perfectly. The girl jumps to her feet with unexpected energy.

_“It really is you! Shimo Shurijin! Thank Azim, I finally found you!”_

The Brass Blade, who has clearly had his fill with her, scowls. “I ‘unno what she’s swivin’ saying. Just pay ‘er out and, if you’re speakin’ the same language, tell ‘er not to pick a fight with a one o’ us again, or next time there won’t be bail to save ‘er.”

Shimo steps towards the bars. How does this Steppedweller know her? Sure, they look similar, but they couldn’t be related! Whatever’s going on, though, Shimo reminds herself, exclaiming “this is not my sister!” and leaving is practically a gaol sentence for this mysterious child. She had no choice but to hear her out.

“Who-” Shimo starts, crossing her arms, her tongue twisting up a bit as she tries to set herself back into Doman. _“Who are you, and how do you know me?”_

The girl, who looks to be no older than fifteen, shrugs as if the answer should be obvious. _“Mosun. I was a Tumet, ‘till they tried to off me, and I’m your sister, duh. Or, uh, half-sister. You even look like me! I’ve been looking for you for months!”_

_“You’re a xaela and I’m a raen!”_ Shimo huffs. _“Look. If you’re just trying to get bail money from the only other au’ra in town, then fine, I’ll pay it. Just don’t make me play this game.”_

The last thing Shimo needed today was some petulant child pretending to be her family just to loosen her pursestrings. Mosun, however, doesn’t let up. _“No, I mean it, dumbass!”_

_“I don’t_ have _a half-sister,”_ Shimo insists. _“Neither of my parents ever remarried or anything like that, so no, you don’t. How old are you, anyways? You’re clearly a kid, and I think I’d know if one of my parents had had another child!”_

_“I’m, uh fourteen? Or so? I kinda lost track after the tenth, but, yes, I do!”_ Mosun stomps the ground with all of the ferocity of a newborn tiger. The dull _thump_ reverberates throughout the otherwise silent hall.

Shimo sighs. This girl won’t give up. _“Fine,”_ she bites back exasperatedly. _“Then how?”_

Mosun shrugs casually. _“Your dad banged a Tumet while out on the Steppe for whatever reason, and now I’m here. Obviously.”_

Shimo leans back. This girl is crude, to say the least, and there’s no way father would have done that! Yet, if Mosun’s about fourteen, and she’s about eighteen, Shimo muses, and oh Kami I remember him leaving home for some few weeks when I’d only seen about four summers, then, Heavens forefend, but this girl might just be… _Telling the truth._

Mosun springs on her pensive silence. _“See! You get it! Now get me out of this Sun-forsaken box, sis!”_

This was all way too much, and Shimo had already been having a day worth at _least_ the second hell, so she responds to Mosun’s insistence with an angry stomp of her own. _“You are NOT my sister! My sister,”_ she growls, _“my sister is_ dead _!”_

Shimo’s snap catches Mosun off guard, and her tiger kitten-like grin fades for a look of unavoidably pitiable sadness.

_“O-oh, I didn’t know…”_ Mosun stammers, her voice so timid that it would be hard to recognize it compared to the drawn-out sneer she’d had until now. She takes a step back from Shimo and crosses her arms, pulling herself inward and casting her gaze towards the floor.

Seven hells…

_“W-wait! No! I didn’t mean…”_ Shimo rushes up, waving her arms with frantic apologetics. Mosun wasn’t Niwa, and Shimo had to accept that, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t her sister. Maybe more details would convince her. _“Look, just, just don’t worry about it. How did you find out about that and end up here?”_

Mosun looks up. She still seems rather timid. _“One of those Tumet bastards, and yes, I know I’m_ technically _the bastard, told me about how my father, y’know, your father, was some Doman traveller, and so I was only half Tumet. So once I got banned from Reunion, I had nowhere else to go-”_

_“You got banned from Reunion?!”_ Shimo presses. Mosun just snickers. It seems she holds on to emotional states about as well as Shimo holds a wetted thread end.

_“Dumb Qestir couldn’t handle me. Some Oroniri jerkface pressed ‘em into getting rid of me after I egged his stupid face. Said I ‘conned fair traders’ and ‘disrupted the peace between tribes,’”_ Mosun says, putting up a pair of heavily exaggerated air quotes, lowering her voice laughably, and rolling her head through each word. _“What a load of yol poop, right?”_

Clearly, the girl isn’t too bothered about it. Shimo gestures for her to continue, not even close to prepared to address everything wrong with her story.

_“So, family abandoned me, markets kicked me out, I had nowhere else to go, right? So I went to Doma to find you Shurijins. And all I found there was a bunch of smoldering wreckage! Some old lady in Namai told me that one Shimo Shurijin had gone to Eorzea, some place called ‘Ool-dah,’ so I found my way to Kugane, stowed away on some trade ship, and here we are!”_

Shimo just glares at Mosun in disbelief. She talked as if being a con, aggravator, or stowaway had been the most reasonable solution to any of her problems. Suddenly, she’s not so surprised the first thing she did in Eorzea was get into a fight with a Brass Blade.

_“Alright. Fine.”_ Shimo says, pressing her fingers into her forehead. _“You’re here, and I believe you, Mosun. So, what’s your big plan now? Ul’dah’s not the kind of place you can just romp around making enemies in like this.”_

_“Well,”_ Mosun leads, laughing sheepishly, _“I was hoping you’d take me in, sis? At least for a little while?”_

_“E-excuse me?! I can’t just-”_

The Brass Blade that led Shimo in bangs a metal gauntlet on his shield. “You don’t have all swivin’ day in ‘ere! Pay up or leave!”

Shimo bites her tongue nervously.

_“Please, Shimo,”_ Mosun says, any hint of smugness completely vanishing. She’s but a dip to the knees off from begging for her life.

_“You’re the only family I have left.”_

Mosun’s words grab at Shimo’s throat like the icy hand of death itself, dragging her down under the guilt that being in Aldenard reminds her of every single day. Not a day goes by where Shimo Shurijin doesn’t wish for the chance to see her family again. Some days, she wonders if she’d been better off having stayed in Doma, having spent her final moments with them cowering from Garlean firebombs.

The Kami had seen fit to test Shimo Shurijin this day, that much is true. However, as Shimo now realized, the test was not one of how many hours of aethertech sewing tests she could stand, or how many commissions she could balance like a plate-spinning jester in the Sultana’s court, no.

It was a test of how badly Shimo wanted that second chance.

Shimo had abandoned her family once. She wouldn’t do it again.

Shimo turns away from Mosun, who caves to her knees in a final, desperate plea. _“Wait, Shimo! Fuck! Please!”_

“How much?” She sighs to the guard, as if the answer mattered. She’d pay whatever they would surely extort her for.

The Brass Blade snickers. “Same fee’s as on the books for it. Two thousand gil or the rat stays.”

Shimo groans and balls her hands into fists. That’s months of pay! With a heavy sigh, she pulls her coinpurse out of her pocket and simply hands it to the soldier, purse and all. “I’ll send for the rest, and if I don’t, you can drag me out of the guild again. Let me take her.”

The sneering soldier tosses the coinpurse up from his hand a few times, and Shimo can tell he’s eyeing her through his mask. If she had to guess, what she’d handed over was itself far more than what was on the books for it.

“Pleasure doin’ business,” he laughs before turning to the guard on duty. “Let ‘er out! The lizardfolk paid up real good.”

The other Blade nods, laughs, grabs a key off of his belt, and approaches Mosun. The poor girl looks woefully dejected until the jingle of keys forces her to look up, but the grin that lights up her face when he goes for the lock could easily have won a brightness contest against the flames of the Firebird’s resurrection or a land-rending eruption from Hell’s Lid. Shimo turns around, her resolutely blank expression giving way to a smile too, only for Mosun to _launch_ out of the holding cell with all of the force of that firestorm smile, arms outstretched, and throw herself at Shimo, pulling both au’ra to the cold stone floor.

_“Oh, thank you! Thank you thank you thank you thank you!”_ Mosun cheers between sniffles. Shimo feels tears drip onto her shoulder and simply laughs. It’s all she can do, really, struggling as she is to catch up with everything that’s happened in the last 20 minutes. The two laugh and hug for what must be five minutes before Shimo wriggles free and pulls herself to her feet.

_“Well, Mosun Shurijin,”_ Shimo says softly, extending a hand to help her youngest sister up. There was much to be done, and much more to be figured out, but for now, Shimo was content to take one step at a time:

_“What say we get out of here?”_

The Kami would not find Shimo Shurijin wanting this day. Her customers might, but that could be tomorrow’s trial.


End file.
